


boldness is forever green

by Contra



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Goethe's Faust, M/M, No knowledge of the 1808 German drama required, The German Peasant Uprising, though always greatly appreciated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 03:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16255874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contra/pseuds/Contra
Summary: The downside of being an avid reader who lived through all of history is that you usually know the other side of the classics. Or: Crowley, Aziraphale and the things Goethe didn't write about.





	boldness is forever green

**Author's Note:**

> Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay,
> 
> so guess who thought she'd be the last person on Earth to write fanfiction of Goethe's Faust and then totally got stuck on the idea of Crowley as Mephistopheles. Yeah, I know, this is pretty much the definition of "niche interest"... 
> 
> I'll give you these translated verses (the original German verses are the opening quotes) to explain why: 
> 
> FAUST:  
> We usually gather from your names  
> The nature of you gentlemen: it’s plain  
> What you are, we all too clearly recognise  
> One who’s called Liar, Ruin, Lord of the Flies.  
> Well, what are you then?
> 
> MEPHISTOPHELES:  
> Part of the Power that would  
> Always wish Evil, and always work Good.
> 
> Yeah, that's Crowley in a nutshell.
> 
> Fair warning, this references history, which sadly did contain some pretty violent stuff. There's also a brief scene referencing sexual assault. None of that is really explicit, the T-rating is very safe in that regard, tbh. But just as a heads up.
> 
> Also if you like some historical background I put some rough info about 1510-20 Thuringia in the end notes, though you can absolutely skip that if you think it's boring. Another fair warning: I was about as careful with history as Goethe was.
> 
> EDIT: I just watched the amazon prime show and lmaaaaaaao an actual scene:  
> Crowley: "I changed my name"  
> Aziraphale: "So what is it? Mephistopheles?"
> 
> Im not saying I called but I called it.

 

 

 

 

_FAUST_

 

_Bei euch, ihr Herrn, kann man das Wesen_

_Gewöhnlich aus dem Namen lesen,_

_Wo es sich allzu deutlich weist,_

_Wenn man euch Fliegengott, Verderber, Lügner heißt._

_Nun gut, wer bist du denn?_

 

_MEPHISTOPHELES_

 

_Ein Teil von jener Kraft,_

_Die stets das Böse will und stets das Gute schafft._

 

 

* * *

 

 

**London, around three weeks ago.**

 

When Crowley finds the book, he’s already three quarters gone on the way to overbearingly tipsy and Aziraphale is talking about the new construction project over at Elephant and Castle, “is that one of yours or did they come up with that by themselves?” He's curled up on the sofa with a nice Chateau Rothschild that used to be something "rosé" from Tesco. Crowley bought it mostly to see the polite yet mildly disapproving look on Aziraphale’s face.

The book is in a stack by the door, new arrivals, which collapses as Crowley pulls it out. He has long since had the suspicion that what Aziraphale saw in his books was less their moral and more their sentimental value and this feels almost like a confirmation.

“Goethe’s Faust, really?”

Aziraphale has the dignitiy to blush.

 

 

The story which will last over the ages goes like this:

Doctor Faust is a very wise man who spent decades learning the entirety of human knowledge. This made him God’s favorite human. So the demon Mephistopheles makes a bet with God himself, that he could sway Faust from the way of righteousness. He takes Faust, whose greatest wish is to truly live, even just for one moment, out into the nightlife of medieval Germany, where he meets and seduces a woman. The rest goes pretty much as expected for a story written by men.

 

The actual events went a bit different, of course, which should have been obvious already by the primary setup. For once, it is widely known that God favors the fools instead of the wise men.

He is also particularly averse to making bets. He’s more of a dice-throwing person, really, especially when you replace the dice with plagues and similar torments.

And of course, temptation doesn’t work that way.

Not that anyone ever remembers the real story.

* * *

 

**Thuringia, around 1520.**

 

The original Doctor Faust makes it apparent at one glance why his name means “fist” in his native language. He is an alchemist and magician, he promises to tell the future, he promises to heal all sickness with what is only not snake oil because snakes are not that common in Germany at that time. In short, he is a complete and utter fraud. And yet his name has spread far and wide through the country. It has gotten him very rich.

Mephistopheles is drawn to him all by himself, because the _pride_ practically oozes off him, the _greed_.

The name Mephistopheles came upon Crowley during the first stages of enthusiasm over having left the 14th century, when he thought he could start fresh and shake everything up a little. He also got sick of Aziraphale still pronouncing him “Crawly”. It works insofar as Aziraphale does not mispronounce it. He considers _Mephistopheles_ entirely sufficient in its own right.

 

They two of them meet in a cobblestoned street somewhere in Thuringia and it would be a surprise, but none of their meetings ever are. Doctor Faust and some of his – disciples seems to be the most fitting word, are just about to leave the local tavern.

“Him?” _Mephisto_ asks and Aziraphale really isn’t sure if he can use that name in his own head without bursting out laughing. “I’m pretty sure he’s a lost cause for your Side.”

Aziraphale looks at the self-proclaimed miracle man, who is staggering drunkenly down the street, shouting obscenities at everyone around him. Later, Aziraphale will think, he is the absolute embodiment of the kind of person to consider themselves “God’s favorite human.”

“No, of course not _him_ ,” Aziraphale says.

“Who else, then? Luther? How does your side see that one, by the way?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Not sure they’ve seen him at all, yet. I visitied him two nights ago, he’s not that far from here. Told him I liked his translation work, told him to lay off the antisemitism a bit.”

Crow-, Mephisto laughs.  “It’s funny, isn’t it? What he’s doing should absolutely entitle him to a bit of help from your side, don’t you think? I mean, bringing the Word closer to the people, protesting the unjust system that has sprung up around it. And yet, the way I’ve seen Above deal with these kind of situation, I’m sure enough that he’ll end up with Us that I won’t even bother tempting him. In my experience, just asking a few questions too much will suffice there.” There’s a bitterness in his words that Aziraphale has come to know as the-not-talking-about-Falling-tone.

“So it wasn’t you?” Aziraphale asks, eyebrows raised. “I could have sworn I heard some stories about Luther being visited by a demon, I just figured-”

“Eeeerrrrr” Crowley (and yes, Aziraphale decides making an effort on the _Crow_ is better than to keep bothering with _Mephisto_ ) hums and the guilt in his voice says it all. Aziraphale laughs. He’d known, of course. Crowley might have held back on the temptation, but he never could resist seeing history play out with his own eyes.

“Got hit nasty with an ink pot.” Crowley shudders. “That man has a mean throw. Pretty sure it left a dent in the wall. I think I'm still bruised.”

Aziraphale doesn't bother to point out that demons don't get bruises, ever, and if they do, they just magically disappear them before anyone sees.

“So why are you here, then?” Crowley asks finally.

Aziraphale looks up with surprise. “Can’t you feel it?”

For a moment, Crowley draws his eyebrows together. Then he closes his eyes and just _senses_.

There is something in the air again, and it’s not the pestilence-heavy Black Death, which took one third of the continent just a century ago. It’s not even War yet, red hair plastered to her head with sweat, she exhausted herself in the 100-year-war that ended a few decades ago and for the time being amuses herself with minor battles. In this part of the world, it will take almost another century until she feels hungry enough to devour _significant_ chunks of the population again and that will be the first time that all the Above’s and Below’s realize that unlike the rest of them, she seems to be getting far stronger with time. But that is still years and countries and generations away.

No, what the air carries in these summer nights, sweet with meadow-flower scent and starlight, actually feels like hope.

Crowley breathes in deeply and smiles.

 

The peasants are wretched creatures really, clawing their small living from an unwilling Earth. And yet lately there have been discussions among them. Murmurs only, but nothing less.

Aziraphale and Crowley stand in the middle of the crowd, it’s the Week’s Market at Leipzig now, and the discussions are subdued enough that you have to know about it already, to hear anything at all. It’s dangerous here, one can be overheard by the rich men, who order executions for less.

And still there is a hum, just below the surface, radical writings only a few can read but many can whisper, ideas above the station of the people having them, of ending the oppression of money and clergy over those who have nothing but their hands and the small things they manage to grow in the ground. "-maybe the landowners aren’t the only ones that matter." "Maybe this world is for peasants, too."

Aziraphale is reminded of another people, enslaved in Egypt, and God’s favor and the truth that right is always what is right.

Crowley is not that naïve anymore. All he can think of is Sodom and Gomorrha, Lot's wife looking back. He doesn't delude himself into thinking that it can't be just as great a sin to look forward.

 

Of course, Doctor Faust has a big stall at the market, too, charging horrendous sums to chant some nonsense words over infected wounds. Crowley walks over to him and changes his left foot into a goat's hoove, just for the fun of it. For a second, Doctor Faust looks downright scared, then he demands a whole Goldgulden for a tincture Crowley knows to be basically just perfumed lard.

Gold means nothing to Crowley, so he smirks and he pays.

"Oh please, Doctor, could you apply it for me?"

Crowley bites back the laughter as he changes more and more parts into goat's feet the more salve the "doctor" applies. He can see Faust get seriously nervous now. Crowley wonders if he should show him a wound on his forehead and make horns grow out of it, when-

" _Mephistopheles_ ," Aziraphale appears, finally able to tear himself away from the adorable earthenware vases that are being sold just two stalls over. He drags Crowley with him and away from the doctor, who sighs with relief. "I know he's an idiot, but you shouldn't use your Divine Powers for cheap tricks like this." Aziraphale, too, is struggling to bite down a smile, though.

Crowley holds his hands up and they both collapse into chuckles.

"You were right though," Crowley admits finally. " _Mephistopheles_ sounds frankly ridiculous when you say it in normal conversation. I think I'll stick with Crowley for now."

"Suits you better, too." Aziraphale smiles. "Crooooow-ley." He whispers it a few times while they walk across the market square.

 

There’s a man, mostly a boy, actually, dressed in rags, talking to the farmers in that forced I'm-not-suspicious-way that downright screams conspiracy. He looks at Aziraphale. He looks at Crowley. Crowley has been in this game long enough to know when the scent of history clings to a person.

It doesn’t, with this one.

The hope, however-

Their clothes are too nice for the boy to consider them an ally and yet, there must be something about them that makes him come up, say, “Masters, do you need a cow? My brother has a cow to sell.”

It’s Crowley who speaks, Crowley who did not so much fall as stumble over the edges of ineffability, Crowley who can see this one’s name won’t even outlive this decade, if it all goes according to history's nice, normal course.

“Don’t call me Master, my brother,” he says.

The glint in the boys’ eyes shows him that was the right answer. “In that case, we shall meet up behind the tavern after sundown.”

 

If Aziraphale is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Crowley doubts that he is.

He remembers that day right in the beginning, the first humans, cast out of paradise. Whatever it was that made Aziraphale give them his sword, it’s the same thing that makes them sit out in the tavern now. Maybe, if one wants to play it safe enough, one could say it's just curiosity. Though it has a far warmer core.

That horrible Doctor Faust shows up again, too, with his entourage, all clad in expensive fabrics and jewelry, paid for by hundreds of desperates in search of the one miracle that could save them. The entire party sits down a few tables away.

Crowley has to avert his eyes, tries to sink into the shadows. Aziraphale just sits there and stares.

 

The bar maid is a young girl, Gretchen is her name, and from the way she tries to smile patiently over Faust’s lewd remarks, it is clear that she doesn’t hear them for the first time.

Aziraphale and Crowley sit in total silence, each barely touching the beer in front of them. They only want to wait until the sun thinks, which should be long before Faust ends his nightly feast.

Instead, he gets up before them. At first Crowley and Aziraphale think it is just the normal human break to relieve himself, after all, his friends are all still there, drinking and cheering and stuffing themselves with food.

They find him, minutes after sundown, near the shack behind the tavern where already a few ragged peasants sit, trying not to arise suspicion. There are dogs, too, skinny, lice-eaten little things, looking for something to eat just like the humans.

Doktor Faust, and Gretchen, crying.

The words Aziraphale screams are “Get away from her, you disgusting creature,” but the language in which he shouts them are long dead. There is fire in his eyes and he lost his flaming sword long ago, but one wouldn’t be able to tell from his posture.

Doktor Faust flinches, violently, shouts “Begone, devil!” and Crowley has to stifle a laugh. How telling, that he cannot recognize an angel even right in front of him. But Faust seems to sense the supernatural danger anyway, coming in waves off Aziraphale ( _wrath,_ Crowley thinks, pure and unadulterated, and maybe Faust is not entirely as stupid as he acts) and he runs back inside.

Aziraphale turns to Gretchen, who is shaking, and it’s not a rational act, he just shoves _life_ towards her, _healing._

Aziraphale has always been less worldly than Crowley in this kind of thing and so Crowley fears that he doesn’t entirely understand that the blessing of life might not have been the best thing for her in this situation. But Gretchen murmurs “thank you” before she, too, rushes back inside.

Crowley is not ashamed of the fact that his instinct right now go in the other direction. He whistles and one of the dogs comes running, a black, hungry thing he only has to whisper a few things to, and Doctor Faust will have an unpleasant surprise on his way home.

Aziraphale watches without interfering, and when Crowley is done, he raises his eyebrows and says “really, a poodle?”

 

By now, the number of peasants gathering has reached something that can comfortably be considered a small crowd.

The boy from the market is there, too, and from the way the others respectfully greet him it is clear that he is some kind of leader.

“You all know me,” he starts, it’s not a speech, really, this is not a place for speeches, and neither Crowley nor Aziraphale want to contradict him. “All who are gathered here should be friends, though you know as much as I do that caution can never be applied to much. I have here the newest sermon of Thomas Müntzer and I shall read it out so you will all be informed.”

Crowley and Aziraphale listen only half, because they keep receiving little snippets of information of the people around them. This woman lost three children to sickness this year. That man’s brother is in prison for speaking out against a church official, so he took in his brother’s wife and five children, with no idea how to feed them all. This family’s house was burned down by an angry Lord just four weeks ago, because the eldest daughter denied him.

The whispers of revolution are quiet and tender, and they have to strain their ears, because for once these hopes are not directed to Up Above, but to the humans around them, a hope not for divinity, but for each other.

That is what it is then, a sermon without a church, a prayer that will get no reply from anyone who is not right here, right now.

 

The meeting doesn’t take long, none of them has that much time to spare, and Aziraphale and Crowley are left alone in the middle of the town square, it’s almost midnight.

“They will fail,” Aziraphale says.

The German Peasant Uprising has not happened yet, and still the two of them know history well enough to know how it goes.

“They will fail,” Crowley agrees.

“Do you think that’s part of the Ineffable Plan?” Aziraphale asks and he knows that he should stop with the Plan already, that it probably is not concerned with anything short of the Apocalypse.

“Does it matter?” Crowley asks back.

They stand there for a long time in silence, tasting the hope in the air while knowing it must turn into blood soon.

 

They don’t interfere, mostly. Maybe Crowley shows someone how to make a kitchen knife sharp enough to cut through a ribcage. Maybe Aziraphale spends a day as a Wandering Preacher Who Does Not Do That Much Wandering, telling the noblewomen their favorite story of the Wise and Righteous Doctor Faust, and then much later their chambermaids about revolutions. If he throws in a lecture on how to keep deep wounds from infecting, then that doesn’t count as interference.

It’s just details, here and there. Not enough to change the end.

 

“We could,” Aziraphale says, and maybe it’s because between the two of them, he’s the one who hasn’t (yet?) fallen, as if it’s an opportunity he still thinks he could take.

“Could we?” And it’s not that Crowley stays away from the True Course Of History out of a particularly deep respect for its makers. He’s just fallen once already. He’s seen how little it changes. “Then what?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “End feudalism for good around here. Come on, this thing can’t possibly last more than a few centuries anyway. What’s the matter in changing it a bit early?”

Crowley starts laughing. “Oh angel,” he says. “I wonder, if your Great and Ineffable Lord heard that, would he feel personally threatened by you?”

The truth is, Crowley has his own personal theories about all this. He thinks, maybe if The Big One insists on being called The Lord, and if he has truly made man in his image, then the whole ending feudalism for good thing has sad prospects, indeed.

The other theory is, the reason why Crowley Fell is because he truly wanted this whole free will thing. Maybe the only important difference between him and the angel is their opinion on walking into other people’s conflicts with a big flaming sword and saying “actually, I am the one in the right here.”

Or maybe, it’s just that he’s tired. All these people will be dust in a heartbeat. What will live on are their dreams, and they need neither angels nor demons for that.

 

They still end up at the uprising against the nobility, caught somewhere between the middle and sidelines. Crowley catches sight of War on the side of the nobles, hair dancing like fire under a truly impressive cascade of diamonds and pearls. She’s laughing, it’s nothing but a nice, slow-going week for her. Her side has the cavalry, and the archers, and all the knights, shining bright with their torches in hand.

The other side has pitch forks, and kitchen knives, and too many children.

Aziraphale and Crowley stand by the battlefield with a big kettle, making a stew they once ate in Mesopotamia, millennia ago. They hand it out and focus on the joy in the eyes of the peasants, which replaces the anger and fear and desperation at the sight of their lives’ first good meal. They all know these eyes are going to close forever in minutes. But if they all die, they don’t die hungry at least.

 

It ends with them on a meadow. They watch the familiar tall, black-clad figure doing his day's work, and when he notices them, they give a friendly nod.

* * *

**London again.**

 

“Oh he was such a bastard, was Faust,” Crowley exclaims and Aziraphale’s smiling.

“It’s considered one of the greatest tales of the German language,” he gives back.

“Is it?” Crowley skips through the book, laughs when he finds the part with the poodle. He thinks of all the names and faces that weren’t preserved in these words. He thinks of the meadow.

That evening they sit together, eat Mesopotamian stew and remember. If they’re being honest, that’s all angels and demons can do.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical background:
> 
> "Faust" the drama was written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) and was fully published in 1808, though he started the first draft (so called Urfaust) around 1770. It's based loosely on the life of Johann Georg Faust who probably lived around 1480-1541. He might have lived in Thuringia as Goethe thought, or in the Northern Black Forest area, as is thought most probable today. He was either a true renaissance man and miracle worker or a fraud. My own and Goethe's opinions diverge on the matter, as you can probably tell.
> 
> The story here is set around the same time as Goethe's play, which is around 1520's Thuringia. In that time, Martin Luther was translating the Bible from Latin into vernacular, which meant that not just the Latin-speaking clergy, but also the German-speaking public were able to understand it. To their great surprise, the public found out that the contents of the bible were not entirely what the church, at that point a major political and economic player, had told them. This would lead to the Reformation, which in turn would lead to the split into the Protestant/Evangelical and the Catholic Christian Churches. At the same time, another radical preacher by the name of Thomas Müntzer was protesting the horrifying social conditions, which included Leibeigenschaft (basically another word for slavery), corruption and oppression of the peasantry.
> 
> This lead to the Peasant Uprisings (Bauernkriege in German), a series of attempted revolutions that started around 1524, where peasants tried to overthrow feudalism. They also postulated the 12 aricles, which are a very early attempt at a Declaration of Human Rights. Needless to say, the Peasant Uprisings were violently surpressed. Thomas Müntzer was beheaded and put on a spike. Most of the revolutionaries suffered roughly the same fate.
> 
> (And yet, you know. People were trying.)
> 
> Oh yeah, the title of this fic is mashed together from two other Faust quotes, namely “Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!” and "All theory is gray, my friend. But forever green is the tree of life."
> 
> The entirety of Faust is here:
> 
> __  
> [English](https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/German/FaustIProl.php)  
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  __  
>  [German](http://www.digbib.org/Johann_Wolfgang_von_Goethe_1749/Faust_I_.pdf)   
>    
> 
> 
> If anyone actually makes it this far and likes to talk, I'm here!
> 
> Oh yeah, also this is unbeta'd and was written in one go, so if you find any mistakes, please let me know!


End file.
